


Dareth Shiral

by Sabyk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Embarrassingly Short Chapters, M/M, Nuggalope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 08:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3722998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabyk/pseuds/Sabyk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Sunnan Lavellan, getting dragged away from his clan and put in the midst of a desperate struggle to save the world isn’t an easy adjustment. But shit, at least it’s interesting. Series of vaguely interconnected one-shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. Vallaslalsinlinsalin

                Questions, always so many questions. People always wanted to know where Sunnan had gotten his scars, what life with his clan had been like, whether this or that was true about the Dalish, and so on. The worst was when they tried to ask about his vallaslin. So few of them knew the proper term, and those that did couldn’t pronounce it. Though he was more than happy to teach others about his culture when they asked, hearing them butcher what little remained of the elven langauge grated on the Inquisitor’s nerves.

                Cullen, never good with words, tripped over the syllables more than most when he asked. It happened on a slow day, or at least as slow as days got for the Inquisition. For once, doom was not _immediately_ impending, so Sunnan had time to chat for a while after asking his general for updates. The two of them sat at Cullen’s desk, reports and other sundry papers pushed to the side for the moment. The commander’s statement started out almost eloquent before swiftly devolving. “Inquisitor, if it’s not rude to inquire, I’d like to know about your vallas...vallasil...vallalsl...your face...tattoo...thing.” When he had finished forcing the sentence out, he added, “Maker, I’m sorry.”

                Sunnan wanted to be annoyed, but seeing the sheer embarassment on Cullen’s face, he couldn’t help but chuckle a little. “It’s alright, Cullen.” He tapped the crimson symbol that curled around his left eye. “Each different design represents patronage to a different diety. Mine represents Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper.”

                Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Really? You never struck me as the hearthkeeping type.”

                “Oh, beleive me, I can keep hearths with the best of them. Besides, Sylaise taught us to use fire, which I am rather fond of,” Sunnan explained, patting the Antivan fire grenades strapped to his belt. Sylaise had also taught the use of herbs for healing, a practice to which Sunnan owed his life a hundred times over, but the Inquisitor decided it might be best to explain one thing at a time.

                “And the...markings...are a coming-of-age practice, correct?” Cullen asked.

                “Yes,” Sunnan replied, glad the commander knew that much. “Tell me, do humans do anything to mark a person’s coming of age?” During his time with the Inquisition, Sunnan had learned a lot about the world outside his clan in a short period of time, but before that, he had had little contact with humans. Most of what he knew related directly to the conflict between mages and templars, some of it had to do with the Chantry. Beyond that, however, Sunnan had nearly as many questions about them as they did about him.

                Cullen scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose it depends on the specific culture. I’ve heard that in Antiva, they have a special celebration when someone reaches adulthood. Mages have the Harrowing, of course, but that’s much less...joyful. Around here, coming of age usually just means your family starts trying to marry you off.”

                Sunnan grinned. “Did you never come of age, then?”

                Cullen sighed. “Before the Blight, I was awkward, and ever since, I’ve been busy.”

                Sunnan noted that the use of the past tense was inaccurate, but he let it slide. Best not to piss Cullen off _too_ much. Just as he was about to point out the plethora of admirers Cullen had among the Inquisition, a soldier stepped into the room.

                “Inquisitor, Horsemaster Dennet requests your assistance at the stables.”


	2. II. Hands

                “It’s much larger than I expected,” Sunnan commented.

                “Why do you sound so disappointed, boss?” Iron Bull asked.

                Sunnan hesitated. “Well, it’s just...how am I supposed to ride it?”

                “Just mount up. Nothing you haven’t done before.”

                “It’s just so...grey, and leathery,” Sunnan marveled as he stared, transfixed.

                Iron Bull sighed. “Not sure what else you were expecting it to be. You’ve paid a lot of money for this, boss. At least ride it once.”

                “It has _hands,_ Bull!” Sunnan exclaimed in exasperation. “Can I _please_ just go back to riding my hart?”

                The nuggalope snorted, releasing a fine mist from its wide nostrils. The beast dwarfed the stable it was in, looking uncomfortably cramped. Nearby, Horsemaster Dennet shook his head and muttered under his breath. “Could’ve sworn they hired me to take care of _horses._ ”

                “You buy it, you ride it, boss,” Bull insisted. “Come on. I can help you up.”

                With a shrug, the Inquisitor opened the stable door and led the nuggalope out. The Inquisition had to order custom tack for the thing—normal saddles were far too small. The beast stood perfectly still while Sunnan saddled it. As he put the bridle on, he reflected on the sheer insanity of what he was about to do. He had done a lot of strange things in the past few months. He’d been physically in the Fade twice, he’d sealed a giant demon-spewing hole in the sky, he’d become a religious icon for a faith he did not even share. After all that, he thought nothing could possibly seem strange to him anymore. But riding a giant, horned nug into battle? _That_ still seemed strange, which was perhaps a testament to Sunnan’s sanity.

                With the beast’s tack securely applied, Iron Bull hoisted Sunnan into the saddle. In order to sit properly across the nuggalope’s broad back, he had to squat awkwardly, forming a wide and profoundly uncomfortable angle between his legs. “Maybe I should ride sidesaddle,” he suggested.

                Dennet piped up from the stable. “It was hard enough to find a normal saddle for...that,” he said. “Doubt I could find a sidesaddle.”

                Sunnan supposed he would need to find looser pants before riding the nuggalope in the field. For now, though, he pushed through the discomfort and signaled the beast to move. It grunted before lurching into motion with great lumbering strides, its fists pounding the ground in a steady rhythm.

                Iron Bull laughed. “This thing walks by punching! Come on, you have to admit, that’s great.”

                Sunnan smiled and shook his head. He directed his new mount in a slow circle around the well. Meanwhile, half of the Inquisition seemed to be watching, befuddled by the sight of their leader on a giant nug. Sunnan waved to a knot of people watching from the battlements. He turned to Bull. “Shall I show off for them?” Without waiting for a response, he kicked the nuggalope’s mighty flanks, spurring it into a gallop.

                At first, it felt fantastic: the same rush that came with urging his usual hart to full speed, but this time combined with the feeling of power that came from riding a much bulkier creature. However, the nuggalope had scarcely taken five steps before it jerked to a stop, throwing Sunnan off. He landed spread-eagled in a puddle, soaking his clothes and nearly breaking a rib.

                “You alright?” Bull called out.

                “Well, I’m afraid my pride is seriously injured,” Sunnan called back, suppressing a cry of pain as he lifted himself back onto aching legs. “But I’ll live.” He glanced up to the battlements. Some of his observers had left, others looked concerned, and a few tried and failed to hide laughter. He walked over to the nug and grabbed its reins, new determination manifesting in him. “Help me up again, won’t you? Let’s give this another try.”

                Bull obliged. This time, Sunnan tried to bring his mount straight into a gallop. The beast reared back. Sunnan shuddered as he watched its fingers spread, but he managed to stay in the saddle. At last, his mount surged forward, charging through Skyhold at top speed. Sunnan let out an exhilirated whoop as he rode past the surgeon’s tents. As he turned back towards the stables, he let the nug slow to a trot. A few strands of his silky chestnut hair, whipped into a frenzy by the wind, fell into his eyes. He couldn’t hide his smile as he returned to Bull.

                “Well?” Bull asked. “You riding this into battle or what?”

                “Oh, definitely,” Sunnan replied. “At least sometimes. I’d hate to neglect Blelk, so—“ He stopped midsentence, realizing what he’d just said. He blushed.

                “...Blelk?” Bull repeated.

                “My hart,” Sunnan said, unable to meet his eyes. “He’s blue and he looks like an elk, so I named him Blelk.” Shit. He _really_ hadn’t meant to admit to naming his mounts, ever. Every creature in the stables had a different, descriptive epithet which Sunnan used to mentally refer to them. No one else was supposed to hear them. They were just a way to distinguish between mounts easily. After all, ‘Blelk’ was much easier to remember than ‘Tirashan Swiftwind.’

                Bull was silent for a long time before asking, “What are you going to name this one?”

                Sunnan considered it. “Well, he’s a giant nug, so his name should be Nuggsley...no, no.” He stopped himself, waving the thought away. If someone else was going to know about it, he decided, he would put more effort into the name. “I should name this one something dignified, shouldn’t I?”

                Bull scrutinized the creature before remarking, “I don’t think a _dignified_ name would suit him.”

                Sunnan wasn’t listening. “... _Ser_ Nuggsley,” he decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by cheap innuendo.


End file.
